When the Dust Settles
by police.dont.consult.amateurs
Summary: One-shot I wrote in between Series 1 and 2. Things at the pool don't go exactly to plan.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing, as much as I'd like to.**

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><p>The first thing John Watson registered was pain. His left arm was in agony. A quiet moan escaped him as he rolled over onto his side, cradling his injured arm to his chest. That was when he had his second realization. Rubble, there was rubble everywhere. The flood gates opened and memories rushed into John's mind. Moriarty, the bomb, Sherlock. <em>Sherlock<em>. Immediately, John was pushing himself into a sitting position with his good arm, kicking himself free of the debris. There was dust in the air, too much to see anything very well. He coughed. John was in the pool, this much he knew for sure. He'd felt it when Sherlock had pushed him into the water. He had no idea where the consulting detective had ended up, only that he had risked his life to save John's.

The remains of one of the pool's walls were a jagged outline in front of him, barely visible with all the dust in the air. John pulled himself forward, trying and failing to keep his probably very broken arm out of the way. It was slow work, but he finally made it to the pool's edge. John gripped the wall with his good hand and pulled himself agonizingly into a standing position. From here, he could see a bit more of the damage. The building had all but collapsed and stone and glass littered the floor. In order to help his friend, John knew he had to get out of the pool. He would have to climb. This wasn't going to be big on dignity, he decided.

Heaving a sigh, the doctor again gripped the wall, finding a foothold and pulling himself up. There. One step down, God only knew how many to go. He braced his foot on a piece of stone that jutted out from the wall, finding another handhold and pulling himself up just a bit farther. Unfortunately, the movement jostled his bad arm and he hissed in pain. John took a deep breath, allowing the sharp pain to return to its dull throbbing, before taking another step. He managed to reach over the edge of the pool, grabbing onto something that felt relatively stable (he couldn't see anything very well). Another deep breath and he was pulling as hard as he could, dragging his battered body over the edge.

He allowed himself a few minutes' rest because, honestly, he wasn't sure he would be able to continue without it. When he felt both mentally and physically prepared, he heaved a sigh and managed to get onto his hands and knees. Without a wall to hold onto, he definitely couldn't stand. John coughed and began to crawl forward, navigating (infuriatingly slowly) the maze made up of the building's pieces.

"Sherlock!" He called, voice hoarse. John coughed again, the dust having found its way into his throat. "Sherlock!" There was no answer. That, in itself, was worrisome. Sherlock always had an answer. In all the time John had known him (mere months, though it felt like forever), Sherlock had never been one to keep his opinions to himself. And, if he knew John was looking for him, he'd certainly _say_ something, wouldn't he? Panicking, John was frantically pulling himself across the floor, eyes flitting from one pile to the next, looking for signs of life.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, how long he'd been crawling through this mess. Memories of Afghanistan plagued him (dust and rubble, the smell of burnt flesh), but he pushed them back, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Suddenly, through the gloom and the dust, John could see something dark and distinctly human-shaped. He threw himself forward, completely disregarding his own injuries. Sherlock lay motionless, surrounded by ash and rock and something else John couldn't quite identify. Something warm and wet on his hand. Blood. As he moved closer to the other man, John could see it clearly. Sherlock lay in a pool of blood. John willed the doctor in him to take over, to make Sherlock just another patient, to protect him from the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to derail him completely. It stayed infuriatingly dormant, leaving John to drag it up from the very depths of his mind. He struggled to remember what he was supposed to do in a situation like this. In seconds, all of his battlefield experience had been thrown out the window. He was helpless at Sherlock's side, hands fluttering over the consulting detective's chest. A gash ran down its length and John pressed his hands to it, applying as much pressure as he could, gritting his teeth against the pain in his left arm. A few minutes of this and John was getting restless. He reached out, hand shaking, and checked for a pulse. Really, this should have been the first step, but in his present state, John was nowhere close to the efficient doctor he usually was.

A faint flutter of a pulse. Sherlock was alive. John let out a quiet sob and returned his attention to Sherlock's injuries. They were…extensive, to say the least. His right leg was bent at an odd angle and his face was battered and bloody. There were several places from which Sherlock bled. The pool of blood seemed to grow, despite John's attempts to staunch the flow. He prayed for help, knowing screaming wasn't going to do anything. The police had to be on the way. An explosion like this would have alerted them, right? They couldn't ignore something this big. They couldn't ignore it when John needed to keep Sherlock alive. Keeping his hands where they were, John leaned down and placed his head on his friend's chest, listening for a faint heartbeat. He sat like that for a long time, wondering where the ambulances were, wondering if Moriarty had escaped; anything to take his mind off of _this_.

Sirens. It could have been minutes or hours, but there were sirens and that meant assistance. Before he knew it, there were footsteps coming in his direction and John managed a strangled cry for help. The paramedics were quick to spot them and John was grasped by the shoulders and loaded onto a stretcher. Sherlock was receiving the same treatment. The blackness of unconsciousness was converging on the doctor and he knew he couldn't fight it for long. As his eyes slid closed, John saw a man with an umbrella moving toward them, the expression on his face one of anguish.

o0o

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ John groaned and cracked an eye open. The light was too much to bear, so he closed it again, allowing himself time to mentally prepare before trying once more. This time, the brightness was a little easier to deal with and he was able to keep his eyes open. The beeping of the heart monitor jolted him into true awareness and he immediately sought out Sherlock with his eyes. What he found was shocking, to say the least. Mycroft Holmes sat in a plastic chair in between John's bed and the other bed in the room, presumably Sherlock's going by the dark curls. The expression on his face was impassive as he tapped out a rhythm on the ground with his umbrella, his other hand grasping a much paler one. Fleetingly, John wondered if the elder Holmes ever left home without the umbrella before he returned his attention to the strange scene before him. He'd never known either Holmes brother to be very affectionate toward the other, yet Mycroft held his brother's hand as if he was entirely used to it, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. It occurred to John that it probably _did_ happen all the time. Sherlock's profession of choice had probably brought him into more than one incredibly dangerous situation before John had become his flatmate. Who knew the kinds of things he'd gotten himself into before now?

"Ah, Dr. Watson," Mycroft graced him with a tired smile. "Good to see you're awake. I'm sure you're curious as to my brother's condition. I've been assured by several very respectable physicians that he'll make a full recovery. Unfortunately, he won't be waking up just yet." John nodded, the doctor in him understanding the hospital's methods. Sherlock's body needed time to recuperate and bodies did their best healing during sleep. He likely wouldn't be coherent for a while.

"Do you have the time?" he asked, genuinely curious as to how much time had passed since the explosion. Had Mrs. Hudson been informed? And what of Sarah? He'd been on his way to her flat when he'd been kidnapped. She probably thought he'd stood her up. John sighed and ran his good hand through his hair. What a mess.

"Half past three," came Mycroft's response. He seemed about to continue when his phone rang. Mycroft was muttering quickly, evidently having a very important and very secret conversation. As far as John could tell, most of his conversations were very important and very secret. Presently, the elder Holmes ended the call, a frown on his face.

"It seems my presence is required elsewhere." Mycroft looked fairly upset at the prospect of leaving his brother and John felt a strange need to reassure him.

"I'll be here." He gestured to the hospital bed he was currently sat in and gave a small smile. "Can't exactly go anywhere, can I?" His poor attempt at humor seemed to snap Mycroft out of whatever mood he had been in.

"Yes, of course. I'll be by later this evening. Get some sleep, doctor. You look like hell." Mycroft turned and left, leaving John alone with an unconscious Sherlock Holmes.

o0o

Nurses were in and out of the room all day and John found himself somewhere in between consciousness and unconsciousness. The conversation with Mycroft had been his most lucid experience since waking. Once, he had almost convinced himself the entire thing had been a dream, but then he had turned and seen the plastic chair sitting between the two beds, recalled the rhythm Mycroft's umbrella had tapped out on the floor, and known he couldn't have dreamed up such specific details.

Lestrade had stopped by with Sergeant Donovan at some point, but John had been nowhere near awake enough to carry on a conversation. He _had_, however, heard theirs very clearly. It seemed Sally didn't hate Sherlock as much as she seemed to. She had seemed fairly worried about him and had asked the nurse about his condition as well as John's. John had shut this part out, not wanting to hear what kind of medical state he was in, not wanting to know what was wrong with Sherlock because he couldn't do a thing about it. When the doctor had gone, Lestrade had stood by Sherlock's beside for quite a while, murmuring something John couldn't make out. Sergeant Donovan had left.

Harry had also been by with Mrs. Hudson. She had apparently been informed. The two of them had sobbed for a bit and then left. John was glad he hadn't been entirely lucid during this particular part of the day. It wasn't that he didn't love his sister (he did, obviously), but he didn't want to deal with anyone until he knew that Sherlock was alright. Worry about his friend was driving him up the wall and John found himself recalling past conversations, dragging domestic memories to the surface. The time he'd come home to find a severed head in the refrigerator, the day Sherlock had burned one of his jumpers "for science", the time he'd found the consulting detective asleep on the couch after a particularly exhausting chase. He desperately wished they were back at the flat now. John wasn't much enjoying being a patient and he was sure the nurses weren't enjoying it either.

o0o

It was hours before he was truly awake again. A familiar sound had forced his brain into alertness. John wracked his brains before coming to a conclusion: someone was plucking at the strings of a violin. He turned to the other bed and was pleased to find Sherlock, awake and relatively well despite his many injuries. He was sitting up with his violin, plucking out whatever tune was in his mind. Luckily, neither of his arms had been rendered useless. John wished he could say the same for himself.

"You took your time," Sherlock said, still focused on his violin. John could only shake his head, as of yet unable to form words to describe exactly what he was feeling. He was grateful, of course, that Sherlock had survived. It was certainly nice to see him up again. But, he was also surprised. How had the detective made such a quick recovery? Hadn't he lain prone on the mattress only hours ago? Still, this was _Sherlock Holmes_ and he had never been one to sit still for any length of time. He clearly hadn't been awake for long and already the boredom had set in. John had to assume Mycroft had been back. No one else would realize how much Sherlock would need the violin during their stay in the hospital.

"So did you," John replied, grinning. The music stopped and then John was laughing uncontrollably. They had blown up a building and Sherlock was okay and it was all just so _ridiculous_ that he couldn't do anything else. It didn't take long for Sherlock to join in. By the time the nurse returned, the two of them were gasping for breath, the pain medication clearly having taken its toll on both doctor and consulting detective.

"I'm glad you're alright, John," Sherlock said as the nurse administered the medicine that would put him to sleep once more. For a moment, John didn't know how to respond. Sherlock wasn't a very emotional person, as a rule, and he generally didn't share things like this. Then again, there had been a moment at the pool during which John had considered the possibility of Sherlock having feelings, actually _caring_ about him in some way. He'd seemed genuinely touched that John would be willing to give his life for him. John himself had been surprised and, as the nurse administered John's own medication, he mumbled his response.

"You too."

o0o

John unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street, the four grocery bags in his hands coming dangerously close to falling. Luckily, John was very used to this routine and had become very good at balancing the bags. He clomped up the stairs as quickly as he was able (the bags were heavy, after all), wishing his flatmate who would do the shopping once in a while. Thankfully, the door at the top was already open and John stumbled into the sitting room, wondering what he would find. Sometimes it was body parts, other times it was chemicals. Either way, John was sure it wouldn't end well. His friend's experiments, while entirely brilliant, usually ended in the destruction of their living space.

"Lestrade came 'round. No sign of our friend, but there's been a murder." Sherlock sat on the couch, his laptop resting on his knees and that stupid grin that only made an appearance when there was thinking to be done spread across his face. "Three women, all musicians, unconnected in every other way as far as The Yard can tell, not that that means very much." He stood, dressed in one of his perfectly tailored suits, and headed for the door. "Coming?" Sherlock was already tying his scarf around his neck.

John simply smiled. In seconds, the groceries were in the kitchen (on the floor, of course, as all other surfaces were covered with equipment) and he was grabbing his own jacket. Sherlock was already downstairs and John was quick to follow. They had been home for all of two weeks and things were as normal as they had ever been. Sherlock's chest still pained him when he ran too quickly and John's arm was still a bit sore, but the two of them were relatively healthy again and that meant back to work as far as Sherlock was concerned. John was more than happy to join him because, during their three-week-long stay in the hospital, he had come to understand the true nature of boredom. Yes, they had been blown up. Yes, John had been taken hostage. Yes, they had finally come face to face with the infamous Moriarty. But, it didn't change things. Sherlock Holmes was still a consulting detective and John Watson was still his amateur blogger. Somehow, they had each become a permanent fixture in the other's life, even after only a few months together. John, as he climbed into a cab after the youngest Holmes, decided he didn't much mind.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading!<strong>


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